This Life, This Most Awful And Wonderful Life
by Larry L
Summary: Before the Carnivale gang picks up Ben Hawkins in Milfay, an emergency presents itself that may leave one of the freaks dead.
1. Morning

**THIS LIFE, THIS MOST AWFUL AND WONDERFUL LIFE**

Above all else, know this: the earth is greedy. She is a hungry bitch with an insatiable appetite. She feeds on the dead every day but sometimes that is not enough. Sometimes she craves the living. And when she does, she calls upon the all-too-willing wind to become her co-conspirator in crime. The wind gives her a body by which to become whole, gives her legs on which to travel. She becomes a dark and swirling shadow on the horizon; a silent tempest roaming the night like a vampire made of dirt and sand. She can cross entire wheat fields in seconds, can canvass miles of desolate plains in an hour. Always hunting, always prowling. Searching for the exposed and unprotected. An open window, an un-zippered tent flap. She will show no mercy and death will be slow and agonizing for those she finds. Men, women, children. She is indiscriminate -anyone with an open mouth and an unguarded respiratory system. She has fed heavily these past couple of years. She has grown fat off the land. She has killed thousands and still her stomach growls from hunger.

Dust.

Every morning. In his mouth, his nose, his eyes. In his goddamned lungs, even. So much of it. Everywhere. Every cough brings it up into the palm of his tiny hand -a thick, dark mixture of phlegm and dirt and sometimes even blood. _It's trying to suffocate me_, he thinks. _To bury me while I sleep. But I won't let it. I can't. I have too many responsibilities. I have a schedule to keep, people to take care of. I got a show to run here and nothing short of God Himself is going to stop me from doing what I have to do_.

Samson stirred, waking just as the dawn began painting the sky a light shade of blue outside the truck in which he slept. He opened his eyes, yawned. He could see the Ferris wheel ahead -The Colossus, it was called- a massive metal structure that rose three stories above the dusty earth. It was the carnival's biggest draw and the sight of it brought Samson a deep feeling of pride. No other traveling outfit could beat it and he enjoyed having that boast. Its top girders were tinged in golden sunlight, making it look as though it was a giant steel cookie that had been dipped in fire. And come midday, with that sun blazing down hard and no cloud cover for relief, it just might get as hot as one. A cool breeze -weak and dying; a fugitive from the advancing heat - bumped clumsily against the truck outside and took refuge among the tents set up nearby. The flags strung across the midway jumped on their ropes at its arrival -colorful, triangles flapping and clapping, breaking the stillness of the early morn.

_Time to wake up, Samson ole boy. Time to start the day and get that ball a-rollin'. _He stretched and licked his lips. Grainy. He grimaced and leaned over to spit. Had he forgotten to roll up the windows before turning in? Nope, they were all closed. Dust must have come in through the air vents. He'd have to remember to cover them tonight before he hit the sack. The sack. What a joke. He frowned at his current sleeping quarters. The truck's cab was large enough to support his diminutive, three-foot frame but it was nowhere near as comfortable as the bed he used to sleep in. He shot a sour glance at the wooden pull-wagon parked outside, at the one he used to call 'home'.

That is, until Management kicked him out.

_Quit your whining_, he told himself. _You didn't do nothing wrong. Management's just got a plan right now that doesn't involve you, that's all. It's just the way he does things sometimes. You should be used to this by now._

But Samson wasn't used to it. It upset him being left out of the loop. It was a credibility issue. The others looked to him for guidance and leadership. If Management can't trust him enough to even let him sleep in the same damn trailer, what kind of message does that send out? It was no good, all this secrecy. No good at all. Nothing but trouble.

A knock at the window startled him and he looked up to see Jonesy offering him a steaming cup of joe. He smiled, rolled the window down, and eagerly accepted the man's gift.

"Mornin', boss," Jonesy said as Samson took his first sip of wake up juice. "Whatcha doing sleepin' out here? You and Management have a lover's quarrel?"

Sarcasm felt comfortable in Samson's voice. He used it often. "Very funny. You're a regular Charlie Chaplin, you know that?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I've been called a 'tramp'. So what's the plan, boss? We stayin' another night or pullin' up stakes?"

"Can't say I rightly know. I haven't spoken with Management yet."

"We've been here a week already. These hayseeds don't have anymore bread in their pockets. I say we strike this place and move on."

"The crowds _are _getting pretty thin but like I said, the decision ain't mine to make."

Jonesy scratched the stubble on his tanned face. It itched whenever he got irritated. "Stumpy told me nobody came callin for Rita Sue after her cootch show last night. You know what that means? It means if not a single man shows up to wet his whistle, it's time to throw in the towel and call it a day."

"I agree with you but until we hear otherwise, we carry on like we got a show tonight."

Jonesy's metal leg brace squeaked as he shifted the weight off his bum knee. He frowned. Goddamned knee. "I don't see why we just can't---"

"Because we don't have permission! How many times I gotta tell ya?"

Jonesy couldn't hide it any more. The mounting frustration turned his face a deep red. "The hole's dry, Samson! We done tapped it out! Only a damn fool would--"

Samson grabbed his well-worn, brown Fedora from the seat, forced it onto his small, misshapen head, then glared at Jonesy with a harsh, stone-cold expression. The hat was a symbol of his authority; the firm divide between friend and employer. The hat meant business. "We move when Management _tells_ us we move. End of discussion!"

Jonesy conceded. Leaning back against the side of the truck, he dug a tobacco pouch out of his pants pocket, pinched off a clump, and put it into his mouth. He needed to cool down before he said something he'd regret later. _I've thrown in my two Lincoln's worth and that's all that matters, _he thought as the tobacco's flavorful juices began turning his saliva brown._ If they don't want to listen to reason, that's nobody's fault but their own. _

Samson frowned. He didn't like yelling at his best friend. They'd been through too much together and the last thing he wanted to do was sour their relationship over something neither of them had any control over. "Sorry about that."

Jonesy nodded, spit onto the ground by his feet. "Yeah, me too. I didn't mean to bark at ya. Hell, you know me, I got a big yapper. Can't keep it shut sometimes."

"My father used to have a saying," Samson began, his voice softening considerably. "I can't remember how it goes in German, but in English it means: 'a man who knows how to speak his mind sleeps better at night'. And let me tell you, I've walked by your trailer before. You have no idea how loud you snore. "

Jonesy laughed. "I just want what's best for these people. And I know you do too. To my way of thinking, staying here any longer's a helluva waste of time. Do me a favor. When you talk to Management today, can you pass on my opinion?"

Samson threw a quick glance over his shoulder, at the pull-wagon behind the truck, at the door marked with the sign that read: Management. "He knows, Jonesy. He knows."

Jonesy understood. There was something spooky about that trailer, about the man living inside of it -the man whom nobody ever saw. Nobody but Samson, that is. This carnival was Samson's outfit but the man living inside that trailer was the one _really _in charge of things, the one who called each and every shot. If he said 'go west', they went west. If he said 'skip this town and go to that one', then that's exactly what they did. Samson was merely an embodiment of Management's will; a mouthpiece in which to speak his words; a face to put before them when the people needed to see their leader. Jonesy wasn't sure what Samson got in return for this strange, symbiotic relationship he shared with Management, but he hoped -whatever it was- that it was somehow mutually beneficial. Samson was a damn good man and didn't deserve to be taken advantage of.

A man's voice -shrill and panicked- suddenly rang out from behind one of the nearby tents. The acoustics made it hard to tell though from which direction. "Samson! Samson!"

A figure emerged and Samson and Jonesy turned to see Gecko -the Alligator Man- running full-speed towards them, his scaled, reptilian face a mask of worry and alarm. He was still dressed in his cotton nightshirt and slippers which made him appear even more fay than what he was normally. "Samson! Jonesy! Come quick!"

"What's goin' on?" Jonesy asked as Gecko ran up and grabbed him by the shoulders.

He was panting and out of breath, his thin frame quaking as he fought for air. "It's Lionel!" He choked on some dust and coughed. "It's Lionel!" he repeated.

Lionel was Gecko's boyfriend, another poor soul afflicted with the awful "Alligator Man" disease. He'd joined the outfit last year after sneaking into Gecko's tent, all bruised and beat up, crying and pleading for the carny to take him on; to save him from his alcoholic father's painful beatings. Samson ran it by Management and was given the okay to bring the young man aboard. He and Gecko had hit it off immediately and became close. _Very_ close. Moved in together. Ate together. Slept together. Even performed together as the "Awful Alligator Brothers from Louisiana". Their audience draw doubled and they quickly became one of the carnival's biggest acts. "Something wrong with him?" Samson asked.

Gecko nodded, still huffing and puffing. "He ain't breathin! I think he's dead!"

to be continued!>


	2. Off To Town

Jonesy and Gecko dashed through the empty carnival grounds, dodging tent after tent, trailer after trailer until they came upon Gecko and Lionel's wagon. Samson followed behind them in his own hurried pace but even using his tiny cane as a third leg, his small, dwarfish frame could only run so fast. Jonesy was no better, what with his bum knee and squeaky, metal joint brace, but he could really shake a leg if called upon. Gecko was in a state of near hysteria, sobbing unabashedly as he followed behind, clutching himself tightly through his housecoat as if he were freezing, as if they had set up camp in the biting chill of the Arctic instead of the dry and humid heat of Oklahoma.

They burst in the door and rushed over to Lionel, who was still lying in bed. His face was calm and peaceful, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, as if he were in the deepest, most relaxed state of sleep one could attain.

Gecko stood behind Jonesy, timidly peering around him, standing on tiptoes to look over his shoulders. He didn't want to get too close; didn't want to face the fact that something was terribly wrong with his lover. "Is he dead?" he asked over the lump in his throat. His lips were quivering. "Oh please, God. Don't let him be dead."

Jonesy slapped Lionel's cheeks a couple times, trying to prompt a response from him but got nothing. "Lionel? Hey!" Gecko winced at each fleshy smack. "Wake up, Lionel!" Jonesy pulled the man's jaw down and peered into his mouth. Then he reached inside and began twisting and pulling at something lodged deep within the young man's throat. A moment later, he extracted a thick, wet clump of congealed dust the size of a mealworm. He flicked it from his fingers and it hit the floor with a wet thwop! "Got dust in his throat. Clogged up his airway. Probably came in through this open window," he said, gesturing to the flapping curtains over Lionel's bed.

"Impossible! I made sure it was closed before we turned in. I always do," Gecko said, shaking his head. "He must have opened it sometime during the night."

Jonesy put his ear to Lionel's chest and listened for a heartbeat.

Samson finally joined the three, hobbling up the trailer's steps one at a time. Several Rousties had seen the commotion and followed. "Well, what's the verdict? Is he still ticking?"

"Lionel, don't do this to me," Gecko sobbed. He paced nervously back and forth as Samson walked over to the bed and stood next to Jonesy. "Don't you dare leave me."

"I can hear a heartbeat but it's faint. Very faint. If we don't get him to a doctor soon, we're gonna lose him."

Samson frowned. He hated going into these hayseed towns unless it was absolutely necessary. And unfortunately, this looked like one of those times. "Better start up the truck."

Lila, the carnival's Rubenesque "Bearded Lady" stirred from her slumber. Noise. Outside the trailer. Some kind of fuss going on in Gecko and Lionel's wagon parked next door. She opened her eyes, scratched at the patch of thick, dark hair on her chin, then suddenly startled and jerked up in bed, surprised to see Lodz already awake and dressed. He was sitting in the chair directly across from her, his fingers -with their finely-manicured nails- rolling his polished Hickory walking stick back and forth between his hands, as if patiently waiting on something. And he was. He was waiting for her to wake. He'd already slicked back the short, silvery hair that was quickly thinning atop his scalp and had put on his best smoking jacket. His dark sunglasses hid the milky whites of his blind eyes and a mischievous smile sat parked across his lips, the kind he usually wore when something fishy was up. "What's going on?" she asked, confused, pulling the bed sheets back and swinging her plump feet out from beneath them to find her slippers.

His voice, a slight European accent: "Get dressed, my dear. We're going into town."

"How come?" she wondered, pulling herself off the mattress and reaching for her coat.

"Lionel has apparently taken ill."

"Is he gonna be okay?" she asked, reaching for the veil she wore whenever she went out into town. She liked it because its intricate stitch work concealed her beard nicely.

Lodz stood up from his chair and steadied his walking stick on the wood floor of their trailer. "How should I know?" he shrugged coyly. "I'm just a mind reader, not a fortune teller."

Then his smile turned into an ugly, wicked grin, full of shiny white teeth that looked much too big for his mouth.

Sophie drew back the curtains covering the old, converted School Bus's windows and saw Jonesy carrying Lionel's limp body over to his truck, followed closely by Samson and Gecko. There was urgency in their moves and right away she knew something was wrong. "Uh oh, looks like Lionel's in some kind of trouble." She dashed to her dresser and started to pull on an overcoat.

Across the room, her mother, Apollonia, -her eyes open wide in a glazed, unblinking stare; her mouth a thin, pale line drawn down at the ends in a disapproving, perpetual frown- lay motionless in her catatonic state, useless hands at her sides, useless legs that never moved beneath their bed sheets. She hadn't spoken in years but that didn't mean she was quiet. She often conversed with her daughter. Telepathically. Much too often, in Sophie's opinion. But such was the power of an old and ailing gypsy fortune teller. She asked her daughter where she thought she was going.

"I'm going to go see if they need help," Sophie answered aloud as she buttoned up her coat and then tied her shoes. She paused as her mother continued 'speaking', then sighed and threw her hands up in frustration. "It is too my business, Mother! How can you say that? Lionel's my friend. And so's Gecko. I'm concerned for them." She strode quickly across the room to her mother's bedside. "Looks like we're going into town. I'll be back in a little while." She leaned down and kissed her mother's forehead. The old woman didn't move, didn't blink. Just as still and unresponsive as a corpse. Sophie turned on her heels and started to leave when her mother 'said' something that made her stop in her tracks and swing back around.

"What do you mean by that?" But Apollonia said no more. Sophie was used to her mother's cryptic responses but that didn't mean she always understood them. Irritated: "I don't understand, Mother. Tell me! If you're trying to warn me about something, you have to tell me what it is!" She waited for a response but got none. "Fine! Be that way! You can be such a child sometimes!" Sophie threw open the door, paused as she remembered something, then added over her shoulder, "I'll fix your breakfast when I get back." The door slammed shut and she was gone. Apollonia sighed, causing a small saliva bubble to burst from the corner of her mouth.

Sophie hopped onto the back of the truck with the others and took a seat just as Jonesy threw the clutch into gear and gunned the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward and everyone reached out to steady themselves as the truck sped down the pot-hole riddled dirt road, kicking up a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Gecko was crying, cradling Lionel in his scaly, Alligator arms. Lodz and Lila were sitting next to him, Lila rubbing his back, offering what little comfort she could, Lodz just sitting there next to her, face turned to the wind, a bemused smirk on his lips. He gave Sophie the creeps. She knew he was blind but sometimes when he looked at you, even through those dark glasses he always wore, you could almost feel those cloudy white eyeballs staring right back at you. She didn't trust him. Never did. He always carried himself as if he had the goods on you. Like he knew all your most deepest, darkest secrets. Hell, he probably did. And he had no qualms about using them for whatever dubious purpose suited him or his over-inflated ego. She had to be careful with her thoughts around him, she reminded herself. He could read them. No matter how hard she tried hiding them -and not just her but anybody- sometimes he could still read them. But her thoughts weren't on the good Professor Lodz this morning. They were still trying to decipher her mother's parting words to her:

Steer clear of the pink-eyed man.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? And why was she so evasive when asked to explain herself? Whenever they had customers in their bus and were reading the tarot cards for them, her mother would often say strange and cryptic things like that but it wasn't Sophie's responsibility to expound on them. She just relayed the message and it was up to the customer to interpret its meaning. Sometimes it made sense to them and sometimes it didn't. "The message will make itself clear over time," was the response she told them whenever they didn't understand what the cards were showing them. She supposed the same advice applied to her as well. But if her mother would just come out and say what the hell she meant instead of being such a bitch---

"And how is your mother this morning?" Lodz asked. "Still fighting with her, I see."

Sophie snapped back to reality and turned to find Lodz staring at her, that detestable shit-eating grin still plastered across his tanned face. Damn him. He was doing it again. Invading her head. Reading her thoughts. She thought of the two words she wanted to tell him. Concentrated on them really hard.

Lodz smiled behind his dark glasses and shook his head. "Tsk Tsk Tsk. How un-lady like."

Sophie turned away from him and stared off into the distance. Ahead of them, the flat and plainly unattractive buildings of Knauff, Oklahoma -bleached white by the harsh glare of the pounding sun- were quickly approaching on the horizon. She hated Townies. Liked them when they had money in their hand, hated them when they didn't. Hated them even more in situations like this; being put at their mercy. Because when it came down to her and her friends, they never showed any. She wished it was just a case of her being overly-cynical, that Townies weren't really all that bad, but unfortunately they had proven her wrong time and time again. To them, Carnies were nothing more than vagabonds and swindlers; stray dogs that wandered into their towns, stole their food, stole their money, then left before Johnny Law could kick them out. And that was just fine by her. Let them think what they want if it kept them at bay. Sophie knew the truth, though. And it was the reason she had no problems taking their money. As soon as the tents went up, as soon as the generators roared to life, as soon as all the midway lights turned on for business, they came. They always came. And they came willingly.

"We're almost there, sweetheart," Gecko whispered to Lionel and lovingly stroked his hair, his face. "Just hang on a little bit longer, okay?" Lionel was unresponsive.

With a screech of tires, Jonesy steered the truck into the hospital's parking lot and stopped in front of its double glass doors. Everyone piled out of the back and helped Gecko lower Lionel off the bed. Jonesy took the young man into his arms and carried him up the steps, the entourage following close behind him. He kicked open the door and entered the crowded waiting room.

"Hey! We need some help here!" he called out. "This man's dying!"

Everyone turned and gasped in horror at the motley crew: a waddling midget, an Alligator Man, an old blind man, a fat bearded lady, a normal young girl, and a cripple carrying another Alligator Man in his arms. Nobody moved. All they could do was stand and stare.

"Are we gonna get some help here or what?" Jonesy yelled.

to be continued!


	3. At The Hospital

Time froze in the small hospital lobby. The Townies all stiffened in their seats, eyes wide and mouths gaping at the sight before them. Women grabbed their children and drew them close, fearing for their safety. Conversations stopped abruptly, unfinished sentences hanging off their speakers' lips and chins like dangling strands of verbal spaghetti. Even the normal, everyday sounds one would expect to hear in a hospital (babies crying in the nursery, patients shouting for their medication and the rush of answering footsteps) stopped, creating a long and awkward moment of silence. Jonesy shifted the weight of Lionel's limp body in his arms and looked around the room for help, waiting for a response. But nobody dared move. It was like the eerie beat in between a lightning strike and a thunderclap, Sophie thought. She just wondered how long it was going to be before the _BOOM_!

Not long, it turned out. Seeing carnival freaks -free of their tented confines and out wandering through the town in broad daylight- was too much to handle for one old woman and she screamed. Her eyelids fluttered once or twice and then she fainted back in her chair.

The children all began crying at once. Several people leapt from their chairs and scrambled out of the room. "For God's sake, cover your face!" a man angrily yelled to Lila as he coaxed the old woman who fainted back to consciousness. In all the excitement, Lila had forgotten to put on her veil. She snatched it from her purse and draped it across her cheeks.

A doctor -tall and thin, late fifties, wearing a name badge that identified him as "Garcia" - approached Jonesy with a sour expression on his narrow face. His short, gray hair was slicked back against his skull, accentuating his rat-like nose and beady dark eyes, and when he spoke, he stood a good arm's distance away, as if the Carnies were a virus he didn't want to catch. "You can't bring him in here."

Samson pushed through the group and firmly planted the tip of his cane down upon the floor. "Sign outside says this here's a medical establishment. Our friend needs help."

"He's dying," Jonesy snapped, taking a step towards the doctor. "And the longer we stand here flappin' our lips, the worse his chances get of living through this!"

"Looks dead already," Garcia took another step back. "You people need a morgue, not a hospital."

"Don't say that!" Gecko cried, tears streaming down his leathery cheeks. Lila took him into her plump embrace.

"Had a heartbeat last time I checked. So are you gonna help us or what?"

The doctor glanced at the patients sitting around the room. Get these monsters out of here, their faces all seemed to be pleading. Children cringed at the sight of Gecko and Samson, burying their faces deep into their mothers' bosoms, trying their best to hide from the horrors of Nature's cruel mutations. "Look, you're upsetting these fine people---"

The Professor interrupted him, accusation heavy in his voice. "By that remark, Sir, you insinuate we are not."

The blind man made Garcia nervous. There was a particular air to him; something he couldn't quite put a finger to. He had the arrogance of someone with wealth; of Old World Money -an Aristocrat, perhaps- who had traveled to America in pursuit of a fortune but had instead fallen victim to the Great Depression. His coat was made with the finest thread, his aftershave no doubt an expensive, imported brand. And even though he couldn't see the man's eyes through his dark glasses, the doctor felt them staring at him, burning a hole through him. Garcia stammered when he spoke next. "I'm sure all of you are decent, God-fearing folk and I'm awfully sorry about your friend, I really am, but---"

"If it's money you want, we got it." Samson dug into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of Sawbucks. He waved them in the air to Garcia. "Name your price."

Garcia crossed his arms and shook his head. "There's a hospital in Tulsa. They might see him there. In the meantime, I'm going to ask you to leave."

"Please," Sophie begged. Perhaps the doctor would respond to a female that didn't have more facial hair than him; a female that could pass as normal in the outside world. She walked over and stood next to him so that he could smell her skin cream. "We don't have time to take him to another town. If we don't get him some help -here, right now- he's gonna die. Please, Sir, I'm begging you. You're a doctor. Help him."

The doctor eyed her for a long moment, considered her words, wondered what she looked like naked, and was just about to give in and help when he happened to glance behind her and caught sight of Gecko with his weird, scaly face and dirty locks of matted hair. The spell was broken immediately. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. But this hospital has very strict rules about cleanliness and sterility. No Freaks allowed."

"YOU'RE the Freak, you BASTARD!" Gecko spat and made a move to jump the man. He wanted nothing more than to hurt this asshole, to rake his sharp nails down across his face and split his skin open, to spill his blood across the hospital's 'clean and sterile' floor. Sophie and Lila pulled him back, holding onto both his arms as he struggled to free himself. Tears surged down his cheeks and he collapsed back against Lila's round frame.

"Thanks for nothing, shithead!" Jonesy snarled and whisked around back towards the front door. Several women gasped at his profanity and cowered lower in their seats. The group turned and started to head back out. All but one. Lodz remained where he stood. Sophie tugged on Jonesy's arm and everyone stopped to see what he was going to do.

"You comin' or not?" Jonesy asked the Professor.

Lodz shook his head. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up later."

"What do you got in mind, Lodz?" Samson asked.

"I'm going to have a little chat with our friend here. Don't worry about me, I'll find my way back."

The smile that crawled across the Professor's lips told Samson and the others exactly what they needed to know. No one objected. Jonesy wished he could stick around and watch Lodz do what he did best but Lionel's time was nearing fast and they needed to get going. He didn't know where this hospital was in Tulsa -hated driving somewhere without an exact destination- but he had no choice. He nodded, pushed the others ahead of him out the door.

Lodz turned back to Garcia and asked, "Is there somewhere we can speak?"

"Whatever you got to say to me, you can do it right here."

Lodz shook his head. "I prefer we do this in private."

Jonesy was lifting Lionel's body onto the back of the pickup when a woman's voice called out: "Mister? Excuse me, Mister?"

Everyone turned to see a young girl emerge from the hospital doors and come running towards them, holding on to her white, triangular nurse's cap so it wouldn't blow off her head. She was pretty, Sophie thought. Shoulder-length brown hair, soft, white skin, full round lips, curves in all the right places. She reminded Sophie a little bit of Libby Dreifuss and that wasn't altogether a bad thing.

"What do you want?" Jonesy hissed. Her youthful beauty had no effect on him. She was nothing more than another cruel and inhumane Townie. Dirt had more appeal.

"I know a place you can take him. It's a lot closer than Tulsa."

"That so? What do you care if he lives or dies? Didn't you hear your boss in there? We're just a bunch of freaks."

Sophie grabbed Jonesy's arm. "Clayton, stop. She's trying to help us."

It wasn't often Sophie used his first name and the effect was like a splash of cold water. He respected her, didn't want to make her upset, so he shut his yap and focused on securing Lionel's body for the trip.

"Where do we go?" Sophie asked the young woman.

"There's a man by the name of Cleveland. He attends to people's …special… needs. You can get help there."

"He a doctor?" Sophie asked.

The girl shrugged. "So he claims."

Jonesy couldn't help himself and interjected, "Claiming something don't necessarily make it so. I work for the carnival. I know this first hand."

Gecko reached out and took Jonesy's arm. "He doesn't have much time. Let's go see this man she's talking about."

"It's your call," he said and Gecko nodded eagerly. "Alright then. We'll go."

Sophie asked, "How do we get there?"

"Bout three or four miles down this road, you'll come to a fork. Take a left and go for another mile or so. There's a dirt road that shoots off to the right. You'll see his mailbox. It's painted red. Take that dirt road and you'll end up at his front porch. There's a bunch of trees blocking his house from the main road so you won't see it but it's back there. Trust me."

"Thank you," Sophie smiled. "We appreciate it."

"Any time," the nurse smiled back. Something passed between them, some jolt of electricity that both immediately felt and recognized. Both of their faces flushed simultaneously, their cheeks reddening as if some invisible hand were applying too much rouge to the both of them. Then the nurse broke eye contact and took a few steps back so Jonesy could start the truck. Sophie settled into the back of the bed with the others and as soon as she sat down, Jonesy put the truck into gear and pulled away. The two girls watched each other as Jonesy rolled out of the hospital lot and turned right onto the main road. For some crazy reason, Sophie raised her hand at the last minute and waved. The nurse waved back and then turned around and walked back inside the hospital. She was nice, Sophie thought, unable to hide her smile. I wonder what her name was. Suddenly, she became self-conscious of her behavior and glanced over at Lila. The bearded woman was still consoling Gecko in her arms, but her eyes were on Sophie. She nodded with a knowing smile. Sophie looked away, guilty and ashamed.

Lodz stood at the window in the doctor's office and listened to his friends leave outside. He waited, made sure they were on their way, then turned slowly towards Garcia. He could smell the man's cheap cologne slowly drying on his neck, the soap he used to clean himself. And just below that, the distinctive scent of perspiration. The doctor was nervous. Good.

"You don't scare me," Garcia said, trying to mask the deep breath he was exhaling.

Lodz shuffled towards his voice, an unsettling grin on his face. "You say one thing but your heart says another. I can hear it, you know. Beating in your chest like a bird's. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat, pitter-pat."

"I'm not sorry for what I did out there, so if you're looking for an apology---"

Lodz continued walking towards the man, the smirk on his lips growing larger until it took up the entire bottom half of his face. "An apology? Heavens no, what would I do with one of those? You were absolutely correct in your diagnosis, Doctor. Why should I hold that against you? Lionel's been dead for hours. Brain asphyxia due to an obstruction in his throat." He slid a finger across the top of Garcia's desk and held it up, displaying the thin, powdery layer covering its tip. "Dust. I hear it's a real problem in these parts." Lodz grabbed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his finger clean. "His friends see the last few twitches in a dying body and cling to the hope that he might still be revived. I may be blind, but even I can see the utter foolishness in such a notion."

"You sure don't sound very sorry that he's dead."

"Not surprising when you consider that I was the one who snuck over to his trailer in the middle of the night and opened his bedroom window." As a demonstration, Lodz raised his walking stick and quietly slid the office window open with the end of it. A hot breeze blew in through the curtains, clearing the way for a thin, brown cloud of dust to enter the room.

Garcia raced over to the window and slammed it shut. He coughed on the dirt, then spun around to glare at Lodz, utter shock on his rat-like face. "You just confessed to murder."

"Thus setting into motion the chain of events that would bring me here to your hospital, to this very room, so that you and I could have this wonderful …exchange…of information."

"I should call the police."

"Yes, you probably should. But you won't. Not until I get what I've come for."

"And what's that?"

"Something you have in your head. Give me your hand."

The doctor backed away from Lodz's outstretched arm. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Completely. And now I want in yours!" He lunged forward and grabbed Garcia's arm before the man had time to react!

The doctor struggled, tried to scream for help, but Lodz's other hand was suddenly squeezing his throat, cutting off his air supply! Good God, this man is strong, Garcia thought to himself as he grappled with the Professor! Incredibly strong! He's overpowering me! The man's dark glasses got knocked off in the shuffle and fell to the floor, revealing his eyes for the first time. Clouded by cataracts, they looked like twin pools of milk beneath his graying brows. Lodz put his hand over the doctor's head, his fingers gripping hard onto the man's skull.

Even though his pupils no longer worked, Lodz was still able to "see". All he needed was a simple touch to set this gift in motion and the world opened up to him: with a firm handshake, he could glean a man's most private thoughts and memories. With a friendly pat on the back, he could "hear" conversations held years ago, "experience" the thrill of the happiest day of his life as well as the pain from his saddest. But best of all, the greatest benefit of this gift, was that no secret was too buried. Adultery, molestation, thievery, murder -he saw it all. Nothing could be hidden from him that he couldn't find. He was a thief and nothing more, this poor, blind man; invading people's heads, stealing their thoughts, and never leaving a single trace behind of his presence.

And right now, he needed to "see" what Doctor Garcia had locked up inside of his head. Apparently, this hayseed in Knauff, Oklahoma knew something that Management needed to know; something that Management had asked Lodz to find out. Killing the Alligator Man's lover was nothing more than a way to set the great wheel of fate into motion.

"Relax, Doctor. As the old saying goes: this won't hurt a bit," Lodz said, opening his mind to the flood of images that began pouring in. Garcia's life flashed before the Professor's eyes like a deck of cards being shuffled and laid upon the table. "What do you know that's so damn import--" He stopped, the word unfinished in his mouth, as an image -old, so old it was barely able to materialize- unveiled itself from the dusty corners of the doctor's mind. "Yes! That's it! I do believe that's the one I'm looking for." Lodz grinned.

Management will be happy.

to be continued! 


	4. Meeting Cleveland

Lodz shut his eyes to see the image more clearly in his head. Whenever he read minds, he found that a person's more recent memories were always sharp and clear -vibrant and full of color- while the older ones were harder to see, depending upon their age. The memory in Garcia's head, the one Management had asked Lodz to find, was at least twenty-five years old. The images that Lodz 'saw' had lost their color long ago; they were mostly black and white now with the occasional splash of color -a particular dress one of the nurses had worn that day, the operating table sheet, and, of course, the blood. Blood was always red. No matter how long ago the memory, no one ever forgot the color of blood.

An operating room. Nurses huddled around the table. A body underneath a sheet -a woman, pregnant. She was screaming and writhing in pain. Labor. She was giving birth. Garcia was the doctor in charge of her delivery. He was young then. So very young. Fresh out of school. New to the hospital. New to the medical profession. "Push! Push it out for me!" he was telling the young woman. She was on her back, legs up and spread. Bleeding from her vagina. Heavily. No baby's head yet. "I can't! Something's wrong! I can feel it! Something's wrong!" she screamed. Still no baby. He reached inside of her, felt the baby. Felt its feet. "The baby's breached! We have to cut it out!" Garcia told the nurses and they scrambled to get the necessary supplies. "Oh God! My baby's dying! Get it out! Get it out of me!" the woman screamed. Alcohol wiped across her distended belly. A scalpel in his hand now. The incision -fast, done in one swift move. It looked like he'd drawn a smile on her stomach. The smile began to bleed. In his haste, he fumbled with the instrument. Cut his finger. No time to dress it, had to save the baby. The nurses pulled apart the loose flaps of skin on the mother's belly. One more cut through the abdominal muscles. His finger throbbed. Cleared the membrane. Removed the baby. Severed the umbilical and pulled it free. "Got it! We've got it!" he told the mother. "It's a boy!" The baby -crying, lungs okay. It reached out and grabbed hold of Garcia's hand, clamped down onto his cut finger. The baby stopped crying. A tingle in Garcia's hand, like when an extremity goes to sleep and you shake it awake again. The baby held tight onto Garcia's finger. Almost a full minute. Healed it! The baby healed his cut! One of the nurses suddenly clutched her chest. Old. Can't breathe. Cardiac Arrest. Died right there in the delivery room. Baby wrapped in blankets and taken away. Mother sewn up while the dead nurse is carried out.

The memory blurs, grows hazy. Lodz frowns. "I need more!"

"I don't remember!" Garcia said, trying to catch his breath. "It was too long ago."

"I need a name!" Lodz insisted and gripped the doctor's head even tighter. "Think!"

Next day. Mother in hospital bed. Baby asleep in her arms. He wanted to tell her about his cut and how the baby healed it. Decided not to. Maybe he only imagined that he'd cut himself. The blood he saw could have been from the mother. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Sin," her answer, but her lips formed a different word. Something that only sounded like "sin". Garcia just couldn't remember what she'd said.

"Then what was the mother's name?" Lodz prodded. "Can you remember her name at least?"

Filling out her paperwork. Birth certificate. Baby's name too blurry to make out. Mother's name…What was it? He wrote it down. So long ago. F-l-o-r-a. Flora! Her first name was Flora. Last name began with an 'H'.

"I can't remember any more," Garcia shook his head and Lodz released his grip. "I can't ---"

"I think it's enough. Thank you, Doctor. I'm finished with you now." And with that, he swung his Hickory walking stick in the direction of Garcia's voice. There was a heavy thonk as it connected with the man's skull, followed by a loud thud as the doctor's body dropped to the floor. Being blind, Lodz didn't know if he had killed the man or just knocked him out. It didn't matter. Lodz had gotten what he came for. The woman's name was Flora H. and she had given birth to a boy with a name that sounded like "sin".

Lodz confidently strode out of Garcia's office and shut the door behind him as if he had not a care in the world. Then he walked through the lobby and stopped at the front desk.

The young nurse who had helped his friends outside glanced up from her paperwork. She was surprised to see him, thought he'd left with the others. "Yes? Can I help you?"

He smiled at her, pleasantly. "I am in need of a ride."

Jonesy had no problems following the nurse's directions to this fellow's house. Everything was just as she had described it, right down to the red mailbox by the roadside. They turned onto the dirt road that would supposedly lead them to this man's doorstep, the truck bouncing through each and every pot-hole.

"This can't be good for the shocks," Jonesy grumbled, swerving to avoid the deep pockets.

"Think he's still holding on back there?" Samson asked.

"Truthfully? No, he's probably dead. Maybe had a chance back there at the hospital but now?" Jonesy shook his head. "Even if this doctor guy turns out to be some kind of miracle worker and gets him breathin' again, there ain't gonna be too much left of him worth saving. Brain's gone too long without oxygen. He's better off dead at this point. But, you know, I don't wanna say that in front of Gecko. Poor guy."

Samson nodded. He, too, had lost a love and knew all too well the pain of heartbreak. But that was a long time ago and he'd put that part of his life to rest. He buried her in Arizona and moved on. Only a select few knew why Samson never took the carnival beyond the borders of New Mexico: Jonesy. Management, of course. And Ruthie. Ruthie knew everybody's secrets. She was the first one people ran to whenever they needed to talk, needed to cry, needed advice. A surrogate mother for the entire outfit. Her trailer door was always open. Ruthie knew how to keep a secret and people loved her for that. Respected her. And she respected them right back. A real class act.

"There it is," Jonesy said and pointed ahead to an old, rickety house made of wood. It looked abandoned. Its front yard was a jungle of overgrown weeds, burned brown by the hot, Oklahoma sun. Its windows were boarded over though whether the intention was to keep out the dust or people was up for speculation. The roof was in desperate need of repair. A makeshift tarp covered one corner that was in the process of collapsing in on itself. Jonesy pulled the truck up to the front porch and cut the engine. No one made a move in the back of the truck, just stared out at the house before them and wondered if this trip had all been for not.

"This doesn't look good," Jonesy commented, leaning on wheel.

"You sure this is the right place?" Samson asked.

"How many other red mailboxes could there be in a three-horse town? Yeah, this is the place, all right. Or at least it used to be."

A knock at the glass behind the cab. It was Sophie. She, too, had immediate reservations upon setting eyes on the place. "Think we should go back to the hospital?"

Before Jonesy could answer, the house's front door opened and a man stood in its doorway, hidden in shadow. "What're you all doin on my property?"

Jonesy slid out of the truck and gestured towards the flatbed. "We got a dying man back there. Heard you might could help us."

"Yeah? Who said that?"

Sophie stood up from the back of the truck. "Young girl back in town. A nurse at the hospital we just came from. She said you could help us."

"Nurse, huh?" the man in the doorway paused, changed his posture into something a little less guarded, a little more relaxed. "Dark hair? 'Bout twenty years old?"

"Yes, Sir. That's her," Sophie nodded.

"That'd be Elizabeth. I know her family well."

"And you're Cleveland?"

"Indeed I am." The wooden floorboards creaked underneath his weight as the man stepped out of the shadows and moved to the front of the porch. He squinted at the sunlight, shielded his eyes with hands that were pale and white, like a ghost's. It looked like he'd jumped head-first into a ten pound bag of flour. A knot suddenly developed in Sophie's stomach. Something was wrong here but she didn't know what it could be. Samson and Jonesy both turned to each other at the sight of him. He quickly descended the porch steps and approached Clayton with an outstretched hand. "She wouldn't have sent ya if she didn't see something in you worth trusting. Cleveland Moore M.D. at your service."

"You're an albino," Jonesy said, stating the obvious.

Cleveland smiled as he shook the man's hand. "And you have a bum knee. Now where's your friend?"

"He's up here!" Gecko answered as he stood up. "Hurry! I don't think we have much time!"

Cleveland made his way to the back of the truck and held out his hand for assistance. Sophie and Lila grabbed it and hauled him up. He glanced at Sophie for just the quickest of moments, long enough to say "thank you, young lady", long enough for Sophie to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They were pink. Like a rabbit's.

Steer clear of the pink-eyed man.

Those were her mother's parting words to her before she left the bus. They had been meant as a warning but her mother wouldn't elaborate. The knot in Sophie's stomach tightened. Why should she steer clear of this man? What was wrong with him?

Cleveland crouched over Lionel and listened to his chest. He paused, frowned. He checked his eyes next, lifted his lids and inspected the pupils. There was no response to the sunlight, no dilation. Gecko gripped hard onto Lila's hand and she squeezed back. Jonesy and Samson stood and watched from the sidelines. Sophie had forgotten all about Lionel and the others, had forgotten the entire reason they were here, actually. She couldn't stop wondering about this strange, powder-white man in the back of their truck. Next, Cleveland checked Lionel's carotid artery for a pulse. Sighed. Felt Lionel's wrist.

"Is he still…?" Gecko asked quietly.

Cleveland gently folded Lionel's arm across his chest. "I'm sorry. Your friend is dead."

"No! No! NO!" Gecko burst out crying. He turned into Lila and cried into her bosom. She embraced him, rubbed his back, stroked his long, matted hair. "Oh, Lionel….Lionel…"

Cleveland stood up and wiped his brow. He wasn't used to being outside this long and the direct sunlight made his sensitive skin itch and burn. If he didn't get back into the safety of darkness soon, his epidermis would start to blister. "Why don't you all come inside for a spell? I've got some fresh lemonaid we can drink."

No one had offered to give Lodz a ride to the carnival, so Elizabeth took an early lunch break and drove him back herself. He sat perfectly upright in his seat, the wind blowing through his hair, a slight grin on his face. "Is this your automobile?" he asked, making polite conversation.

"Yes, Sir. Well, it's my mother's actually but she's scared to death of driving it so I guess you could say it's mine by default. Used to be my father's though, before he ran off."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Lodz said.

"Oh, don't be. It's been a couple of years now. Said he was gonna go out and look for work one day and never came back. Used to wire us money every month but then he stopped and we haven't heard from him since. Probably got himself dead or locked up. Poor Momma. She swears up and down he's coming back, but then she also thinks Calvin Coolidge is still President if that tells you anything about her state of mind."

"Do you miss him, much, your father?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Sometimes, but not really. People are just like anything else in the world: the longer you go without it the less you miss it. Besides, he wasn't much of a father even when he was around. Always out boozing and playing cards. The only reason he ever came home it seemed was so he could have a place to sleep off a hangover. So I guess the answer to your question is no. I don't miss him."

"I admire you. You're a very strong young lady," Lodz smiled and softly patted her knee; a soft, non-threatening touch. The images came immediately.

Elizabeth blushed. She felt uncomfortable with compliments. "How do you know I'm young if you can't see?"

"I can hear it in your voice. You still have that wonderful 'devil may care' attitude that so empowers the youth; that enables you to stand up to adversity, to meet life's challenges head-on no matter how difficult they may seem. You're a giver, my dear. Every day, you come to the hospital and take care of the sick and infirm and then go home every night to take care of your mother. Only someone with an inner well of incredible strength could manage such a feat."

Elizabeth's face was still red with blush. "I'm not that strong. Well, not as strong as you are. I can't imagine what it must be like not being able to see."

"It's just like anything else in the world: the longer you go without something the less you miss it." They both laughed. Then, when the frivolity of the moment had died down a small bit, Lodz asked the question he'd been waiting to ask all along. "So tell me, Elizabeth. Why did you just lie to me about your father?"

Elizabeth's smile died on her lips. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy with me, little girl," Lodz said, his voice cold and stern. "You know damn well what I mean."

Despite its hideously dilapidated appearance on the outside, Cleveland's house -on the inside- was surprisingly beautiful and immaculate. Antique furniture decorated every room. Expensive paintings hung on the walls. Ornate, hand-woven rugs covered every floor. And there was not a single speck of dust to be found. Everybody who entered the place all walked in wearing the same expression: utter disbelief.

"Holy mackeral," Jonesy gasped. "Get a load of this place."

"Make yourselves at home," Cleveland said, gesturing to the living room. "I'll go pour the drinks." And then he disappeared around the corner and ducked into the kitchen.

"You sure we can sit down on this stuff?" Samson asked, rubbing the velvet slip-cover protecting the sofa. "Seems to me this kind of furniture is more for looking than for sitting."

Gecko sat down in a loveseat, still clutching onto Lila's hand. She sat down next to him and rubbed his back while he cried. "I know I shut the window over his bed last night," he said, shaking his head. "I just don't understand."

Sophie was still troubled and wore it all over her face. She seemed agitated, distracted. Something was wrong here, she just knew it. The immaculate condition of the house, coupled with what her mother had said (steer clear of the pink-eyed man) this morning, unnerved her to the point of being nautious. "I need to find the powder room," she whispered under her breath and scampered off down a long hallway.

"Don't stray off too far," Samson called out after her but she didn't respond.

The hallway was long and narrow and covered with the portraits of strangers. Old men, middle-aged women. Young men. Children. Teenaged girls. So many faces, all wearing the same, queer expression. Not smiling or frowning but something inbetween; a look of shame, almost, as if they were embarrassed to have their pictures taken. Sophie returned her attention to finding the toilet when something suddenly caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks. She turned to the last picture hanging on the wall and studied the young and haunted face staring back at her. Sophie knew this face. Recognized it immediately. It was the young nurse from the hospital. It was Elizabeth's face.

to be continued! 


End file.
